Cold Harbor
by Tarma Hartley
Summary: Cold Harbor, 1864. A young Confederate soldier searches for his Union lover, hoping against hope that he's survived... Teen, PxE


_A/N: I do not own Phoenix Wright or Miles Edgeworth; they belong to CAPCOM. The plot and the marauding Confederate soldiers are mine. General Ulysses S. Grant, General Nathan Bedford Forrest and General Robert E. Lee are real people with General Grant being used somewhat fictitiously. The battle I used for setting the story is Cold Harbor [May 31-June 12, 1864]._

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_A young Confederate soldier searches for his Union lover, hoping against hope that he's still alive..._

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Finished! :D I'd had this banging around in my head for quite some time so I'm glad its finished and beta read. :)

The story is set during the Battle of Cold Harbor [May 31-June 12, 1864]. While I've used a real battle in which to set the story, I do use the battle fictitiously to a certain degree for storytelling purposes. The cease fire declared for two hours actually did take place June 7, 1864 although I'm really not certain exactly when it took effect; the atrocities committed at Fort Pillow [April 12, 1864] also took place which are the catalyst for changing Phoenix's mind. I'm not really sure if General Grant was a very religious man but most soldiers did offer prayers before going into battle so I have him doing the same for the repose of Phoenix and Miles' souls.

I decided to take a different tack with this one: instead of making Miles the Confederate because of his grey hair, I decided to make him the Union soldier and Phoenix the Confederate. It was kind of weird, actually: when I was writing this, I could picture Phoenix so clearly in my mind talking with a soft Southern accent. I can also see his attitude changing as the Civil War dragged on for many did exactly that during the actual conflict; it no longer meant what it had at the beginning and while some stayed until the bitter end, many did desert.

Souvenir hunters have existed since time immemorial so this is certainly keeping in line with what has been done for millennia after battles. The Confederates were particularly in need of shoes and many of them marched for miles in their bare feet after their shoes had fallen apart so its perfectly understandable that they would take the dead Federal soldiers' shoes. Most Confederates were very poorly clothed although some, such as General Robert E. Lee, had beautiful uniforms.

Links to the various sites I consulted in my profile.

Anyway, hope you enjoy!

**Thanks** to my readers and all those who have favourited, reviewed, story alerted, favourite author or author alerted me. I appreciate it more than I can say! :)

**Thank you** to my beta reader, Pearls1990, for her AWESOME beta reading! Much appreciated! :)

**Special thanks** to my beloved husband, DezoPenguin, for all his help, support, advice, the title, nagging (when necessary) and encouragement! I appreciate it more than I can say! Love you!

Comments are appreciated and welcome! :) I'll probably change some things at some point; always room for improvement! :)

Rated Teen, Tragedy, male/male relationships, Phoenix x Edgeworth

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_June 6, 1864  
4 P.M._

The soldier in grey stood atop a mound on the earthwork and surveyed the terrible wreckage around him, his gloved hand resting on the top of his ceremonial sword that hung at his side. His grey uniform, its faded gold piping swirls on the sleeves of his grey overcoat from wrist to elbow, his Sam Browne style black belt that he wore over his right shoulder and diagonally over his chest, a gold belt buckle with the letters _C.S.A._ embossed on it, three gold stars gracing both sides of his mandarin collar, a white gun holster where an ivory handled, long barreled pistol rested and knee high, flat heeled black boots, were spattered with dirt, remnants of mud, sweat and faded bloodstains.

He took a deep breath. Bits of trees, the broken bodies of dead animals and men littered the ground in every direction and the moaning of the wounded and dying was terrible to hear.

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, feeling that familiar tug in his gut that never failed to pester him. One would have thought, after nearly four years of fighting in this damned war, he would be used to the terrible sights, sounds and smells but each new battle never failed to leave that heaving, twisting feeling in his middle.

He sighed, allowing his thoughts to wander back to a time just before all of this madness started and mourning the friends, family and colleagues who had been lost in this senseless war. Once, he noted with some chagrin, he, too, was among those who gladly dropped everything and went off to fight for the South. But now, sadder, older and wiser, he realized that the cost was never worth the price in blood that had been paid for it.

_How I wish I would have realized this much sooner,_ he thought sadly, opening his watering eyes. _Perhaps then so much heartache would have been avoided._

He felt a familiar lurch in his chest and shook his head, trying to clear it. There was no use thinking of _him _again; he doubted that he would even want to see him, after the hard words, and even harder feelings, that came between them. But, as many times as his head told him that there was no use trying to recapture the past, his heart yearned to see _him_ again, to feel _his_ touch in tender moments, the sweetness of his lips against his own... how he missed it!

He took another deep breath and stepped off the mound, walking through the valley of death as he looked for that certain person who was always on his mind and always in his heart. And forever had his heart.

He walked slowly, stopping to comfort dying men, in blue and grey, that he came across. Four years earlier, he would never have thought that he would do something like this, to reach out to another whose ideas and beliefs were different from his own; now, it seemed only the humane thing to do for those who were struggling through their final minutes, hours or days of life.

Not surprisingly, there were some of his enemies who cursed him, calling him a _dirty Reb_, _traitor_, _slavery loving bastard _and other colorful epithets that would make his mother blush were she to hear them. There were, however, those who appreciated his kindness, asking him to pray for them and let their families know that they loved them and those who simply stared at him mutely while he tended to them and then quietly moved on, their eyes following him.

_May God forgive us for what we have done in our foolish pride._

Yes, he _had _grown up in those three and a half years and he could only hope that the one he sought also survived.

He continued his search for some time until he came to a spotty trail of blood and, his heart beginning to beat faster, he bent over to look closely. He dimly remembered that one particular Union soldier he had seen steadily marching toward the earthworks where they were sequestered before he was lost in the chaos of battle, the smoke so thick he couldn't see very far in front of him.

His eyes narrowed as he followed it, walking slowly beside it, looking for where it led: a pond that they had been in the general area where the fighting had occurred earlier in the day. With his heart pounding, he started off in that direction, walking quickly and increasing his pace until he was running.

Presently, he came to a stop next to a recumbent figure dressed in blue. His heart in his throat, he knelt on the soft bed of leaves that lay scattered all over the ground underneath the dying soldier, a red stain slowly spreading over his left breast pocket. He wasn't moving and the man in grey had to bend down close to hear the faint puffs of breath that he was making although these were painfully slow and intermittent.

_Beloved... _Emotion rose in his breast and he closed his eyes, forcefully tamping down the panic and sorrow he could feel welling up within him. _What have we become...?_

He reached out and gently touched the man's cheek with the tips of his gloved fingers, noting that a dribble of blood trickled out from the left hand corner of his mouth and his face was contorted in pain.

The other man winced visibly as his other hand went to his hat and removed it, setting it on the ground beside him, his black, spiky hair sticking out at awkward angles pressed flat against the back of his head, his blue eyes sad and drawn. He had hoped that he would find him alive and now, standing in front of his recumbent figure, it seemed that he might not get his wish after all.

"Miles..." he said softly, his breath catching in his throat as his hand cradled the left hand side of the man's face, his thumb tenderly wiping away the solitary tear that was slowly creeping down his cheek.

He didn't respond and for one terrible moment, he thought that he _was _dead but he could feel a shudder that ran through the other man's body at his touch and the eyes slowly opened, dark grey orbs peering at him through hooded lids.

"Ph...Ph-oenix..?" he said, his eyes opening wider in surprise, his mouth twisting as a stab of pain raced through him, a racking cough coming from deep within his chest. He gasped for breath as he tried to speak, a mewl of pain emerging from tightly pressed lips. "Is... is that-?"

"Yes, it's me..." Phoenix's face brightened at the sound of his voice, his heart quickening in his chest and then clouding over as his face contorted in pain. He quickly leaned forward, gathering Miles into his arms, his hand pressing against the back of his head, crooning soft words of comfort to him, his face pressed against the shoulder of his wool uniform.

"Don't talk, Miles," he pleaded, his softly accented voice thick with unshed tears. "Please..." He swallowed hard over the growing lump in his throat. "Save your strength; I'm going to get you out of here."

He could feel the other man's mouth slowly curve into a smile against the exposed skin at the top of his collar and he shifted, slowly turning and sitting on the ground, lowering and turning Miles as gently as he could so his movement wouldn't cause him any pain, pulling him sideways onto his lap.

"I... hope that you do," he said quietly, hissing quietly through clenched teeth.

Phoenix held him close as he talked for some time, Miles' head lying on his shoulder. He talked of his plans when this War was at last over; where he planned to go and what he would do; of where they would go together for there was no question of them being separated again and he didn't give a damn what his comrades in grey thought. He talked of the places he'd seen during his time in the Army and of the wonders he'd seen on his travels, before the War began and during various campaigns.

Miles stayed silent for most of it, content to lie back and listen, Phoenix's melodic voice washing over him like a balm. He closed his eyes and dreamed of better times when this damned war was at last over and they could be together again.

_How wonderful that would be,_ he thought, a smile quirking at the corners of his mouth, his eyes opening slightly, a solitary tear silently trickling down his cheek. _What a wonderful world it would be for the two of us..._

"Phoenix?" he asked after some moments of silence and he could feel Phoenix's fingers tighten on his shoulder briefly before they slowly relaxed.

"Yes, Miles?" His even voice didn't betray his disquiet but Miles could feel his hand trembling slightly.

"Why...?" His eyes closed as a wave of fresh pain rolled over him and he bit down hard on his lip, trying to silence the agonized scream he could feel building up deep inside. He did manage to suppress most of it but a mewl of pain did escape his tightly pressed lips and he could feel Phoenix's body go rigid with unexpressed tension.

He knew what the question was asking him:_ why did you turn your back on me, and our life, three and a half years ago? Why did you leave me?_

He remained quiet for some time, his fingers absently stroking Miles' shoulder, willing the other man's pain to still and, after a few moments of strained silence, he took a deep breath.

"I suppose it was a combination of things," he began slowly, his voice soft and low, "although I guess you could say it was mostly my foolish pride."

"H-how...?"

Phoenix hung his head, his cheeks turning rose with shame.

"I was a blind fool. I let my emotions rule me when I shouldn't have and stayed silent when I should have spoken up." His voice faltered for a moment but he swallowed hard over the lump in his throat and continued to speak. "I... _couldn't_ see then what I can now so clearly and, worst of all, I was wrong."

"Then... _why_...?"

Phoenix's fingers tightened on Miles' shoulder once again. "I was afraid. I was afraid of disappointing my parents; I was afraid of disappointing my friends and I was afraid of disappointing myself." He lifted his head and stared up at the sky for a long time before he spoke. "I was also afraid that what people were saying about me _was_ true: that I _was_ a coward; that I _was_ a traitor to my State; that I _was_ a fool." He shut his eyes once again as the ugly voices clamored in his head once again and he shook it hard. "Now-"

"Now..._what_?" Miles asked shakily, closing his eyes again as pain raced through him, his body trembling with the effort he needed to control it.

"I'm faced with the truth... and it is a bitter one indeed, Miles."

"W-wha-?"

Phoenix's head swiveled to look at him, his blue eyes too old and too wise for his relatively young age. Eyes that had seen horrors that he couldn't put into words but which kept him awake at night, screaming in terror from a thousand nightmares; the accusing stares of those who had perished under his command who continued to haunt his sleeping hours and a heart that bled with every new skirmish and battle where ever more people were sacrificed to the endless thirst of Mars.

_I'm so bloody tired of it all. _

"I was wrong," he said simply, his voice heavy and sad. "I was wrong to turn my back on you; I was wrong to let my foolish pride get in the way and I was wrong to let my emotions get the better of me." Two tears slipped from the corners of his eyes, trailing slowly down his cheeks. "The worst thing of all is the realization that I hurt the one I loved more than anyone else in the world and I wish that I had never left you. Perhaps instead of this-" His voice caught again -"we would be together somewhere and _not_ on opposing sides..."

Miles was silent and Phoenix took another deep breath, plunging on before he lost his courage to say what he knew he must say before it was too late. He could see the signs of impending death; God knows that he had seen enough of it these past three and a half years to know what was coming.

"My life, for the past three and a half years," he grated bitterly, "has been one continuous requiem of regrets and what might have beens. I'm so damned tired, Miles, I'm so damned tired of it all! I'm so damned tired of this bloody war; I'm so damned tired of seeing friends blown to pieces before my eyes or being cut down in front of me. I'm tired of the hate; I'm tired of the continuous fighting and I'm tired of having the faces of the dead haunting me in my dreams, former friends and foes alike."

He scrunched his eyes shut, biting down on his lip to still it. "I'm so damned tired of it all...! I just want my life back! I want those damned three and a half years back!" Tears were streaming down his face and his shoulders shook with sobs but he no longer cared. "All...I want...is my life with you...BACK!"

"P-Phoenix..." Miles said weakly, his dark grey eyes misting and his hand coming up to cradle Phoenix's wet cheek, his lips curving into a slight smile as he felt him slowly turn his head to look at him, shifting his body so that he lay across his lap, his arms tightening around Miles' prone form.

"Miles," he whispered thickly, his voice imbued with unshed tears, "I'm so sorry...for everything." He paused a moment. "There _hasn't_ been a day that's gone by that I _haven't_ thought of you or felt my heart constrict with pain as I remembered our final meeting before this unpleasantness began." A sob burst from his lips as a fresh stream of tears cascaded down his face far beyond his ability to control it. "I love you, Miles...I always have! There's never been anyone else except you and I'm so...damned... sorry!"

Miles felt his heart lift as he heard these words, a smile spreading over his features as he slowly, and haltingly, caressed Phoenix's cheek with calloused fingertips, his lips curving into a soft smile.

"And...I...you..." he said hoarsely, emotion rising within his breast. "I...l-love you...Phoenix..."

Phoenix caught his fingers in his own and pressed them against his lips.

"I love you, too, Miles..." He closed his eyes as he pressed the back of Miles' hand against his cheek. "So very, very much!"

Miles smiled as his fingers ghosted over the back of his neck, pulling his head down closer to his own, his lips finding his and pressing hungrily against his mouth.

"P-Phoenix..." he whispered again once they had parted, his chin lying on his shoulder, his breath coming in hitching gasps as Phoenix's fingers tangled in his hair, pressing him closer to him.

"Miles... I love you," he whispered brokenly, his voice catching as he took deep breaths. "I'll _always_ love you..."

Phoenix held him for some time before he felt Miles' fingers slowly slip from the back of his neck and fall bonelessly to his side, his head lolling on his shoulder; with a final soft breath, his eyes closed, and he went slack in Phoenix's arms. He realized instantly what it meant: Miles was dead.

He choked back a sob as he held him and stroked his dead face tenderly, gloved fingers ghosting over his skin as if he wanted to burn the memory of his lover into his mind. Tears poured down his face as his grief overwhelmed him and he wept, loud, keening wails being ripped from deep within him as he pressed him close to his chest, his fingers tangling themselves in Miles' hair as they cupped the back of his head. Time seemed to slow to a complete stop as he gazed at his beloved's face.

When at last he had cried himself out, he held Miles' dead body close to him, reluctant to let him go. What a cruel trick Fate had played on him: bringing him back together with the only man he had ever loved only to snatch him away from him forever in death. He'd never felt so wretched in his life as he did at this moment.

"Godspeed, Miles," he whispered, a lump in his throat so large that it threatened to choke him as he continued to hold him close.

The setting sun shone its dying glory down on the two men below, one in Union blue who had died in the defense of his country in the arms of his lover, a man in Confederate grey who had chosen his state over that of the country and thus precipitating their separation.

Phoenix held his lover's dead body for some time, not wanting to let him go now that he had him again in his arms after all this time. Tears streamed down his face as he wept, burying his face once more in Miles' neck, feeling the once warm flesh now cold in the rictus of death.

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_6 P.M._

A chorus of voices startled him out of his reverie and he turned his head slightly to the right to see flashes of butternut colored uniforms in and among the trees and he recognized the soldiers as belonging to Lee's Army of Northern Virginia. He felt his heart lurch at the thought of what surely must come as he had seen it happen repeatedly over the years he'd served: they would loot Miles' body for his shoes and whatever else they could carry off as souvenirs.

He clenched his jaw as he set aside his grief and began to think of what he could do to prevent that from happening. He wasn't going to let them touch him, by God, but how could he prevent them from doing so? He knew that both Union and Confederate soldiers did this and it had always struck him as ghoulish, somehow. Why on earth would you want to take something that you couldn't really use from the dead? It had always seemed to him to be disrespectful and he'd refused to condone it in his own Brigade.

He understood why they took the shoes and rifles of the fallen Union soldiers and, while he didn't personally agree with it, he understood that there were practical reasons for doing so. After all, the dead could no longer use them so why not bequeath them to someone else who could? He also knew that most of the soldiers in the Confederate Army were poorly shod so it made a terrible kind of sense that they would take the shoes and other clothing items of the fallen and use them for their own.

Given the hot feelings of the Confederates toward their Union counterparts, he couldn't help but wonder if these soldiers would loot Miles' corpse for his clothing and shoes. What concerned him even more was the other things might they do to his body. He'd heard of what had happened at Fort Pillow in April of 1864 and it sickened him to think that his fellow Confederates had been so cruel to those of the black race. He'd never really liked General Nathan Forrest and, after this, he liked him even less.

Was this the straw that had broken the camel's back? He wasn't sure since the feelings he'd had started earlier in 1862 and had continued to trouble him through 1863 up until the massacre of 1864. He saw the War as not something that would guarantee the Confederates States freedom from the Union to do things their way, but as a useless exercise that got good men killed for no good reason that he could see except to satisfy a few rabid Secessionists whom he didn't much like, anyway and every action since had only solidified this conviction.

He was so tired of it all: the bad feelings that split apart families, loved ones and friends and made them mortal enemies; the hate-filled passions of friend and foe alike that made them do such terrible things to each other; the shed blood, the wasted lives... all of it.

He set his jaw as he gently lay Miles on the ground, stroking his face and kissing his cold lips one final time, tenderly crossing his arms over his waist, his hands folded. He would see to it that these jackals wouldn't be looting this man's body as he picked up his hat and placed it firmly on his head.

He was waiting for them when they saw Miles' prone form lying still on the ground and startled them when he stepped out of the semi-darkness just as they bent down and stretched out their filthy hands to take hold of his wool jacket.

"I can't allow you to do that, boys," he said evenly, one hand on the top of his sword and his pistol cocked and at the ready. "You will leave that soldier be and go back to whatever hole it was that you crawled out from."

They stared at him, blinking owlishly, the astonishment on their faces plain. One of _their_ own was guarding this dirty Yankee's body and talking down to _them_? One of them opened his mouth and started to say something but there was a loud report and a bullet struck the ground directly in front of him and he leaped back, cursing him roundly.

His blue eyes, ice cold and implacable, fixed on them and held. "I _won't_ repeat myself again," he said levelly, his thumb pulling back the hammer which made an audible click as it slid into place. "Take yourselves away from here and leave this soldier in peace." His eyes narrowed down the barrel of his ivory-handled pistol, his mouth twisted.

"Or what?" one of them challenged, his rheumy hazel eyes staring balefully at him, his hand moving slowly toward his own firearm, the others following suit.

"I'll shoot you down like a dog," he replied coolly, his finger sliding over the trigger and pressing down slowly.

The soldier's mouth worked but no sound emerged. His comrades more than made up for his silence in the ugly remarks they made about him, his mother, his family in general and how they felt about him, personally.

His lip curled as they heaped abuse on him, his fingers curling around the top of his sword but he held steady, never flinching even when they made threatening moves toward him, muskets and knives at the ready. The intent was clear: he could move and they would spare him or he could stand there and they would kill him.

"I can't allow you to come any closer, boys," he said, his voice calm as he sighted the barrel of the gun on the nearest man, "and I won't allow you to touch him." He gave a loving glance to the dead man who lay on the ground, an action that_ wasn't_ lost on the Confederate soldiers. "You see, he gave his all for what he believed in and it behooves me to do the same for him." His eyes flickered over to the soldiers again, his lips pressing into a thin line as they glowered at him. "Stand down or I will shoot you."

They ignored him and rushed toward him. He looked levelly down the barrel of the gun as his finger pressed the trigger...

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_June 7, 1864  
Union Headquarters  
7 A.M._

"It was the damnedest thing I ever saw, General," Sergeant Wilcox said, his voice tinged with admiration. General Ulysess S. Grant looked at him with rapt attention as he told him what he had witnessed, leaning back in his chair and smoking a cigar. "I _never_ thought I would ever see the day when a Reb would give his life to protect one of _our_ boys. He took two of them down before he was killed." He was silent a moment before he spoke again, his voice imbued with wonder. "One of _Lee's_ own protected one of _our_ boys, General."

General Grant's eyebrow lifted slightly. "Indeed." He looked over the Sergeant's head and out of the open window, his gaze thoughtful as he considered. "Perhaps not all men in the South are the fiends that they've been made out to be." He took a deep breath. "Maybe it means that this damned war will be over soon... and then we can all go home."

"Amen to that, Sir," Sgt. Wilcox said with emotion. They talked of inconsequential things for a few minutes before the conversation ended. Wilcox saluted the General, who returned the salute, then turned on his heel and walked out the door, closing the door behind him.

General Grant looked out of the window for a long time after Wilcox had left, thinking about what he had told him, smoking in silence.

A cease-fire had been called so that both sides could retrieve their wounded and bury their dead. He would order that the two soldiers be buried together since one had given his life for the other and, from what he had been told, defended the deceased from the predations of souvenir hunters.

_What dedication and courage_, he thought, emotion swelling in his breast, standing and walking over to the window. _God willing, this will soon be over._

He bowed his head, praying for the repose of the two soldiers' souls.

**~Fin~**


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